Around and Around We Go
by Ditsypersephone
Summary: Molly knows that Sherlock is a good man. She's just not sure if he is good for her.
1. All along it was a fever

_Just because you get what you want, doesn't mean it's what you need. Using Rihanna's "Stay" for titles._  
><em>I don't own any of the BBC characters, only Molly' family. I thought she deserved more good people in her life.<em>

* * *

><p><span><strong>Around and Around We Go<strong>

_**All along it was a fever**_

She comes with a keening wail, the intensity of her orgasm surprising her.

It's almost painful and Molly thinks she's going to pass out. She grabs at Sherlock's hair, trying to push him away. But his hands keep a firm hold on her thighs as he keeps nuzzling at her curls. Even the gentlest movement is like electricity to her overly sensitive flesh.

"Please, please, please," she whimpers, her eyes shut tightly, the sensations becoming unbearable.

With a tender kiss to her inner thigh, he releases his hold on her. Opening her eyes, she looks at him, kneeling between her splayed legs - his curls a mess, his face glistening with sweat and her juices, his eyes sparkling with familiar smugness.

"Molly," he says.

She knows it's a question but she doesn't want to give an answer. It's not the one he'd want to hear, anyway.

Instead, she sits up, leaning forward to grasp Sherlock's cock. She gives it a couple of firm strokes and uses her other hand to gently roll his balls between her fingers. He groans, his whole body shivers. He always responds so beautifully when it comes to this. She keeps teasing him with the lightest of touches. His cheeks and torso are flushed, his hands curled into fists, shoulders taught with tension, trying to hold on to his much prized control.

She very delicately licks the swollen head of his cock and he snaps.

Growling, he pushes her back down on the bed, covering her body with his. His lips capture hers in a hard kiss, his hips sliding his hot erection through her wet folds.

She wants to howl. She wants to cry. She wants him inside of her.

Tilting her hips and using one hand, she guides him to her entrance. Slowly and deliberately, he pushes himself in. When he's fully seated inside of her, he lazily rotates his hips.

She hates it. Hates how he knows what to do. Hates how he knows what her body likes, how to make it feel good. And she hates how her body responds, instantly. Always.

"Fuck me," she says.

He takes it as instructions, pulling out suddenly and immediately pushing back in, starting a fast rhythm. Locking her legs around his hips, she matches him stroke for stroke.

Sherlock hooks his arms under her armpits, holding onto her shoulders, burying his face in the side of her neck. She knows he's close but she's determined to take from him as much as she can. Angling her hips for more friction, she grinds her clit into his pubic bone. He owes her, she thinks desperately.

Her second orgasm is a sigh compared to the one before. But it somehow makes her want to cry.

Sherlock's thrusts have become erratic and then he stops, groaning, spilling himself inside of her.

"Molly," he says, this time a plea.

And because she feels drowsy and tired – oh so tired - she puts her arms around him and gives in. Only for a little while, she tells herself. Only until he's fast asleep.

As she listens to Sherlock's heartbeat slow down and sensing him drift off, one thought keeps going through her head.

"Fuck me."


	2. A cold sweat hot-headed believer

_**A cold sweat hot-headed believer**_

Work keeps her busy the next day and she's able to keep Sherlock and her confusion off her mind. It's good that he doesn't show up for a case or an experiment, giving Molly time to cool off. When she makes it home, she's no longer as upset as she was the night before when she'd left Sherlock's flat. They still needed to talk and properly this time, but she knows she needs to calm herself. She's afraid that if she confronts him again like last night, they'll end up resolving it the same way. And she knows that's not a very good solution.

Even though she's itching to, she doesn't call, doesn't text. She tries keeping herself distracted enough that she doesn't give in and contact him. A perverse part of her wants him to get in touch first. The realistic part of her knows that it won't be the case. She makes it to three days and by then she feels ready to see him again.

She sends him a message, asking if they could meet. It shouldn't bother her that hours later he hasn't replied. She should be used to it by now but she can't ignore the tightening in her chest every time she checks and sees no answer. Yet she can't allow herself get too worked up by this, fearing the exact same thing will happen as the last time. She'd ranted and raved and he'd seduced her into submission.

**::**

_"They're my friends, Sherlock!"_

_"They're boring."_

_"They're not boring to me!"_

_"Honestly, Molly, I don't know why you waste your time with them. You could be do so much more valuable work. Assisting me, for example."_

_"Assisting you? Wow. Yes, of course! You know, sometimes I think you're the one wasting my time."_

_"You don't mean that."_

_"Maybe I do."_

_With a snarl, he grabs her face and kisses her._

**::**

She should be ashamed how eagerly she'd kissed him back, how she'd allowed him to walk her into his bedroom, how promptly she'd spread her legs so he could use his fingers and tongue on her. Yes, the sex was good. Probably the best she ever had. But sometimes it felt like it was the only good thing about them and that worried her.

It's almost the end of her shift when Greg Lestrade arrives.

"Hey, what brings you here?" she greets him, happy to see a friendly face.

He gives her a tired grin, "You know, murder."

"How exciting! I mean, sorry. Uhm, you know."

"He rubs off on you, doesn't he?" he chuckles.

Grateful that Greg understands her unfortunate sense of humour, she asks, "Which one is it? Pearson's been doing all the autopsy work today but I saw the reports."

"Professor Lewis, stabbing case."

"Ah yes. The murderer must've been in a total rage going by the wounds. Do you have any suspects?"

"Yeah, a solid one. I hope to close this within the week."

"That's good."

He raises his eyebrow, "Sherlock likes to think he's indispensable but we manage fine without him. And I doubt he would've taken this one, anyway."

"Not enough mystery?" she says, surprised how scornful she sounds.

"That and he's in France, isn't he? How long is he there for?"

Caught unaware by this, she stammers, "I don't know."

He gives her a sympathetic smile, "One never does with him."

She returns his smile with a wan one of her own, "Sometimes I think I don't understand him at all."

Greg says his goodbyes, leaving Molly to her own thoughts. By the time she'd cleaned up and was getting into her coat, there's still no reply from Sherlock. She doesn't follow up with a question about France. There was no point. They'd been through this too often.

**::**

_"I was worried."_

_"I'm fine. All in one piece, see?"_

_"That's not the point."_

_"Then what is? I don't like distractions when I'm on a case."_

_"I know you don't but you could text me beforehand. Let me know you'll be away."_

_"John texted you."_

_"Yes. John texted me, after I've sent you several messages, which you ignored, and I had to ask him."_

_"Then text John the next time."_

_"...you know what? Forget it."_

_"You're angry."_

_"Am I?"_

_"Molly...I'm here now and I'm fine. No need to worry."_

_"I had to endure two years of not knowing if you were still alive. So excuse me for asking this simple thing of you."_

**::**

While he's away, she finds numerous things to occupy her time. Being in a relationship had never stopped her from being her own person.

She works on her research paper. She goes to see Mrs. Hudson for tea and a chat – and to retrieve some tongues from 221B. She has a fun afternoon with Mary and baby Emma. She calls her younger sister, Claire, who's expecting her first child any time soon. She goes out with her friends for dinner and dancing. She's definitely not sitting at home, waiting for a certain consulting detective to find the time to text her back.

So when he finally does, she doesn't see it until hours later, when she and her friends are coming out of a club, looking for cabs. She knows it's a bad idea – she's not drunk, but she's not entirely sober – but she gives the cabbie Sherlock's address anyway.

When she arrives, the door is already open and she runs upstairs. He's standing by the window, half in shadows, a small table lamp the only light in the room.

"Did you have fun with your friends?" he asks, his deep voice holding a trace of mockery.

It inflames her. Angry words are on the tip of her tongue but she holds them in. She should've followed his example and ignored his text but she's always so foolish when it comes to him.

He steps away from the window, saunters towards her and when he's close enough, takes a strand of her hair and rubs it between his fingers.

"But you're here now," he says, smiling with satisfaction.

This time, it's she who snaps. Who pulls him down for a bruising kiss. Who rips his shirt open and claws the hard planes of his body. Who orders him to strip and then pushes him down on the floor, hiking her skirts up to straddle him. Who rides his face and then his cock until they're both a juddering mess.

And when they're done, she gets up, straightens her clothing and leaves without a word.

.

.

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><p><em>The next chapters will be Molly doing some good old soul searching. Will update as soon as I can.<em>


	3. It's not much of a life you're living

_**It's not much of a life you're living**_

It's because he doesn't just let himself into her flat, but waits for her to answer the doorbell, that she lets him stay. He's brought take-away and his devastating smile and Molly mutely accepts his apology.

"Forgive me. Last night…I was…please."

It's not that she doubts that he's sorry.

They eat lunch. She watches telly with her feet on his lap, while he works on her laptop. He mumbles as he goes through his emails, solving cases and ranting how unimaginative some criminals are. She dozes off, not having had much sleep last night. He reads her research draft and makes some comments when she wakes up. They argue points and discuss related research. They eat the rest of the take-away. She goes to have a bath and when she comes back, he's lying on the couch, talking to Toby.

She goes to bed and a little later he joins her.

It's a familiar pattern and she's no longer finds comfort in it.

**::**

"_We could go out for dinner."_

"_Takeaway is much more convenient."_

"_True, but it would be nice to go out. We've been inside all day."_

"_You enjoyed the experiment."_

"_I did. I do. It's just…I spend most of my time in the morgue or in the lab and sometimes it's nice to go outside."_

"_It's Saturday night in London, we'll be much more comfortable staying here and ordering in."_

"_You could people watch."_

"_I'd rather watch you. And kiss you. And taste you. Every inch of you fascinates me, Doctor Hooper."_

**::**

Her sister gives birth on Wednesday. Molly decides to see her and the baby on the weekend.

"Look, David, this is your Auntie Molly. Say hi to your Auntie Molly."

The baby fusses as he's being transferred to his aunt, but Molly holds him close, making soothing noises.

"Hi, David. Hello. It's very nice to meet you," she coos, swaying him gently.

After dinner at her sister's, she goes home with her mother, walking through the town where she grew up.

"I always thought it would be you," her mother says.

"Me what?"

Her mother grins, "Married with a baby."

Molly sighs, "Mum…"

"I know, I know. But you were always the more sensible one."

Her mother wouldn't call her sensible if she knew what her life had been like the past few years. She's never told her family of her involvement with Moriarty and Sherlock's faked death. She barely even talks to them about her relationship with Sherlock.

"Remember Claire's sixteenth? She wanted to have her birthday party at a graveyard?" her mother asks.

Molly laughs, remembering, "I can't wait for David to see photos of her Goth phase!"

"It's sometimes funny to me that you're the one who ended up as the pathologist."

"And she's the accountant?" she smirks.

Her mother puts her arm around Molly, "I'm proud of both my girls. Your dad would be too."

She turns to give her mother a full hug, "Thank you, mum."

Her mother still lives in the house that Molly and her sister grew up in. When Molly had made the definite move to London, her mother had her old room converted to a guest room. Molly had helped her sort out her old things and had only kept a few, sentimental items.

"Claire didn't want to mention anything earlier, but there's something I wanted to talk to you about," her mother says, when Molly comes downstairs, having changed into her comfortable pyjamas.

"Is something wrong?" she asks, instantly concerned.

Her mother hands her a mug of tea, "No, no, it's nothing serious. Well, it is serious but not in a life-threatening way."

Feeling only slightly reassured, she prompts, "Go on."

"You know how Claire and Alex have been looking for a house of their own? Well, I was thinking, and I mentioned this to them, they could have this house."

"Oh," Molly says, having expected something entirely different.

"But only if you're okay with this," her mother hastily adds.

"And where are you going to live?"

"I have an eye on a flat, nearer to town. The house is too much space for one person. Claire has the little one now and I thought it would be a good idea."

Molly doesn't disagree with her mother but she's still a little surprised.

"What does Claire think?"

"She wants to know what _you _think first," her mother says, looking at her inquiringly.

"I think it's a brilliant idea. And you should definitely do it if you want to," she says.

Her mother looks concerned, "There's still a lot to discuss and they won't be able to move until next year, anyway. But you're okay with this?"

Molly smiles, "Of course I am, mum. It's just weird thinking that you won't live here anymore."

Her mother smiles back, "I've actually been thinking about moving for a while now."

"Have you? You never mentioned."

"I've been in this house for over thirty years, and alone since your dad died. I'm looking forward to something new. And the flat I'm thinking about is nice."

Later, when she's in bed, Molly realises that she's feeling sad. Not because of her family's plans.

It's because she can see them moving on, while she feels stuck. And she doesn't know what to do about it.

**::**

"_Why do you introduce me as your pathologist?"_

"_Because you are a pathologist."_

"_You introduced me to your parents that way."_

"_And you have a problem with that."_

"_Yes!"_

"_And how did you want me to introduce you?"_

"_As your girlfriend."_

"_Molly, we've agreed that the term is juve…"_

"_Well, I prefer it over 'my pathologist'."_

"_But it's a very accurate description, is it not?"_

**::**

"So Mum's told you about the house," Claire says to her the next day.

Molly nods, "Yes and I think it's a good idea."

"I don't want you to feel like we're taking something away from you." Claire comes to sit beside her on the sofa, having put David in his Moses basket.

"Why would I think that?" Molly frowns at her sister.

"Because it's your home too."

"I haven't lived here since my twenties. And I don't see myself moving back here."

Claire looked at her, "Are you sure?"

"Of course! Besides, the place mum's picked is really swish. It has a gym and everything. It's better than my London flat!" Molly laughs.

"She's been talking about throwing parties…"

"By the way, is she seeing anyone?"

Her sister gives her a look, "Has she mentioned Clive?"

Molly nods, "Yeah. At first I thought he was just the estate agent, but the way she talks about him…"

"I've met him, he's nice. She could do worse."

"Good for her! She deserves some fun."

"Speaking of fun, how are things with your detective boy?" Claire asks, teasingly.

Molly rolls her eyes, "He'd hate you calling that."

"Pardon me, I meant _consulting detective_," her sister says, trying to imitate Sherlock's manner.

Claire and their mother had met him when they'd come to London for a shopping weekend. Molly had asked him to have dinner with them. He'd been polite but barely spoke during their meeting. She had to admit that it could've been worse. Her meeting with his parents hadn't been planned at all. She'd simply been there during an unannounced visit. And Sherlock hadn't acted pleased at all.

"Things are fine," Molly answers.

Claire arches an eyebrow, "Fine?"

Molly plasters on a bright smile, "Fine."

"That's convincing," her sister retorts sarcastically.

"Claire…"

"Molly…" her sister imitates her.

She doesn't want to talk about it but she stills ends up saying, "Sherlock is…Sherlock."

"And what does that mean?"

"I don't know," she whispers forlornly. She gives her sister a helpless look.

Claire moves closer to put a comforting hand on her arm, "Talk to me."

And Molly says something she's been afraid to confess, even to herself.

"I love him, but sometimes I don't think it's worth it."


	4. It's not just something you take, it's g

_**It's not just something you take, it's given**_

_- Ten months earlier - _

She's not sure who makes the first move.

One moment they're laughing triumphantly about a solved mystery, the next they're practically ripping each other's clothes off. He's licking her nipple when Mrs. Hudson walks in on them.

"Oh!" comes the startled gasp from the landlady.

Molly hastily grabs a cushion to hide her nudity. She's sure that Mrs. Hudson's look of startled embarrassment matches her own.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellows. Molly is very aware of his erection between her thighs.

"I didn't see anything, I didn't see anything," his landlady exclaims, making a hasty retreat and slamming the door.

Molly is still staring at the door and clutching the cushion, when Sherlock takes it out of her hand and resumes licking her nipple.

"No, wait, we can't do this," she says, getting off of him.

He scowls at her, "What?"

"This was a mistake, I don't know what I was thinking." She looks around for her clothes.

"_I_ was thinking that this was a spectacular idea," he says, getting up to take the clothes away from her.

She frowns at his action, "Believe me, it isn't."

"Why?" he challenges.

"Because we're friends."

"And?"

"And we can't do this."

He stares down at her, "Why?"

"Because I want more and I don't think you're willing to give me that."

"Wrong," he says, then kisses her breathless.

She wonders if she's been right all along.


	5. I threw my hands in the air

_**I threw my hands in the air, I said show me something**_

The week starts with a familiar routine – he's bored, she's busy.

She's showing a woman's body to be identified by her husband, when she notices Sherlock by the observation window. She shakes her head at him, hoping he gets the message. He's interrupted a viewing before.

"It would've been thirty years next month," the deceased's husband says, his face pale.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Turner," she tells him. She's never liked this part of her job and feels like her words of sympathy are trite in the face of loss. The police officer who had accompanied him offers the same sentiments.

The husband turns to her and it's a look she's all too familiar with, "Did she suffer?"

Even when the answer is yes, Molly is always careful in choosing her words to deliver the facts. She believes the truth is important but it doesn't have to be given harshly. She's grateful that in this instance it's very straightforward.

"She most likely lost consciousness very quickly and didn't feel a thing."

Mr. Turner nods, "Thank you, Doctor."

Sherlock comes in when Mr. Turner and the officer leave. He gives Mrs. Turner's body a cursory glance but Molly can tell from his impassive face that it holds no interest to him.

"You took my toes," he says to her when she's done putting the body away.

She replies tartly, "You weren't using them."

"But it's important."

"You said it was important five weeks ago, but you ignored them as soon as I delivered them to you."

He grins at her wolfishly, "You were wearing a new bra and I had to know if the knickers matched."

She raises her eyebrow, "So you're blaming me for distracting you?"

"You're always a distraction, Molly Hooper."

She knows it's meant to be flirty, but somehow it feels like a barb.

::

"_John thinks it's a bad idea."_

"_What do you think?"_

"_I think you'll tell me when I get things wrong."_

"_Do you?"_

"_I trust you."_

::

She asks him to leave the morgue when he hovers as she's performing an autopsy. She reminds him that she's not his lab assistant when he demands her to fetch various chemicals and paraphernalia. He commandeers her computer and loudly mocks people's emails to him as she's preparing for a lecture.

She's coming back from a staff meeting and is contemplating giving him the blasted toes, but he's gone. And, to her surprise, there's a message explaining his absence. "Case" a post-it note on her computer screen tells her.

It's certainly easier getting through her tasks without Sherlock hassling her every five minutes. She's used to it, yes, - and she enjoys his company most of the time - but there were days that she had enough to deal with on her own. While she hopes that his case doesn't put him in danger, she also hopes it's interesting enough to keep him occupied for a while.

An hour after she gets home on Friday, he shows up at her flat with a dress and a pair of high-heels.

"We need to leave by eight," he says, raising his eyebrows at her outfit.

She's showered and already in her cosiest pyjamas. She's been looking forward to having a lazy night-in and there were dvd boxsets to get through. Toby's already made himself comfortable on the couch.

Though she's tired, the intrigue of going undercover with Sherlock sways her and she agrees to help him. He's been hired by an insurance company to assist with a string of jewelry theft and he's narrowed it down to two suspects. He wants to gather more data at a private jewelry show tonight.

Of course the dress fits her perfectly and the shoes make her legs look longer. She takes care with her hair and make-up, making sure not to overdo them. Sherlock comes into her room just as she's deciding on which earrings to wear.

"Forgot these," he tells her, as he hands her a jewelry box.

It contains a pair of diamond drop earrings and a matching tennis bracelet.

"Are these real?" she asks, her hands hovering over the beautiful items, afraid to touch them.

"They're on loan for tonight."

"I can't wear these," she protests, but Sherlock takes the box and puts the bracelet around her wrist.

"We have to look the part," he tells her as he's about to put the earrings on for her, too.

She stops him and does it herself, "And you're sure the ringleader is one of the guests?"

"Positive," he says, giving her the once over.

He doesn't say anything, just leaves her room. As she follows him, she feels silly for expecting him to comment on how she looks. He's on a case, she reminds herself.

::

"_Please stop humming."_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_You're humming, it's distracting. Cease."_

"…_excuse me?"_

"_And the cleaning. Please stop the cleaning. I need to access my mind palace."_

"_How about you access your mind palace at your own flat?"_

"_I'm comfortable here. As long as you keep quiet."_

::

"I'm William Vernet and you're Margaret Davis, we've been together for two years. I come from old money, we both work in the pharmaceutical industry, we both met through work," he explains their cover story briefly in the car to the event.

She doesn't mention her surprise that her cover name is her middle name and her mother's maiden name, but instead asks, "Are there any specific things you need me to look out for?"

"Just chat with them, I'll do most of the work."

Although she's assisted him many times out in the field with cases, they've never assumed different identities before. It seems exciting and surely attending a posh party is an improvement over her initial plans. Three hours later, she almost regrets coming.

He'd played the solicitous partner to perfection. Charming, attentive, calling her 'Darling' as if he did it everyday. Had she not known that it was all an act, she would have fallen for 'William Vernet'.

He's confident that he's solved the case when they leave the event. He's full of buoyant energy, while she's feeling even more tired than before. She looks at him from her side of the dim car and feels resentment settling in.

Of course she prefers Sherlock's honesty to the false compliments he's used on her in the beginning. She's flattered that he appreciates her intelligence and expertise. She knows he trusts her and she values that immensely. She's thrilled that he's sexually attracted to her.

She'd not been blind when she'd agreed to embark on a relationship with Sherlock. He's certainly never pretended to be the perfect boyfriend and she's never expected him to be. She doesn't doubt that he cares for her and that he's doing his best.

But why does she feel like she needs more?


	6. If you dare come a little closer'

_Did you ever have an argument with someone and the argument you're having isn't about the argument you're having? Does this make sense?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>He said 'If you dare come a little closer'<strong>_

Molly takes the expensive jewelry off when they get home. She carefully places them back in the box and hands it to him.

"Do you like them?" he asks her.

She shrugs, "They're gorgeous but completely out of my price range."

He holds out the box to her, "I'll gift them to you."

"Sherlock, that's ridiculous! They're worth a small fortune!"

He frowns, "I thought women liked these sort of things. You said you liked them."

"It doesn't mean I want them," she says.

"Even if I give them to you, as a present? You have a birthday, soon, don't you?" he insists.

"I have no use for them," she shakes her head.

"Fine," he sniffs, "I'll return them."

It's the way he says it that makes Molly suspicious.

"Sherlock…they weren't on loan, were they?"

He turns to leave, "It doesn't matter. You don't want them."

She can tell that he's hurt at her rejection of the gift but instead of feeling guilty, she's angry.

"You know I don't wear a lot of jewelry. And I would never have any other occasion to wear something as expensive as that," she says heatedly.

"You might," he counters.

"When, exactly? We never do anything that would give me reason to."

"You had reason tonight."

"Because you were on a case," she says, trying not to raise her voice.

"And there will be other cases," he counters.

She knows she sounds childish but she can't help shrieking, "I don't want them!"

"Fine," he growls and leaves, slamming the door.

How dare _he_ be upset, she thinks furiously. And throws one of her shoes at the closed door.

::

"_The flowers are lovely."_

"_My research indicates they're customary."_

"_Research? Do you mean the women's mags you read?"_

"_John's confirmed that the giving of flowers is a convention between two people who are …involved."_

"_Are we…involved?"_

"_After yesterday, I thought we were."_

::

Once her anger subsides, Molly wonders if she's overreacted earlier. It seems such a petty argument but then acknowledges that it had not been the jewelry that had set her off.

She thinks about her feelings from earlier that night. The confession she's made to her sister comes back to her mind. She does love Sherlock but is their relationship what she wants?

What _does_ she want?

She may be a romantic but she doesn't expect fancy dinners, flowers everyday, nor expensive jewelry or gifts. Neither does she expect her partner to be constantly at her beck and call or to forsake everyone else in favour of her. She has friends who expect their significant others to do all these things for them and its not something that has ever appealed to her.

She thinks of the couples she admires – John and Mary, Mike and his wife, her sister and her partner, her parents. There was romance in their relationships, but of the quiet, constant type.

Molly recalls the way her parents used to be with each other - affectionate, supportive, loving. Secret smiles across the dinner the table, holding hands during Sunday walks, conversations late at nights.

What her parents had - and the other couples have – is a partnership based on mutual understanding and reciprocated feelings.

_She_ wants a partner. She wants someone to talk to about her dreams and worries, her plans and fears, someone who shares theirs with her. Someone who makes her feel secure in her love and who returns it.

But her relationship with Sherlock isn't that. She often feels more like a companion than a partner - sometimes even less than a companion, a mere assistant.

She knows that understanding feelings doesn't come easily to Sherlock and expressing them is even harder for him. She knows that he tries and she's touched when he does. But is that enough?

She would never ask him to do anything that makes him truly uncomfortable. She would likewise never ask him to change to someone he's not. Yet, there is room for compromise, isn't there?

Doesn't she deserve that?

Her insecurities whisper nasty things in her head – trying to convince her that she's asking too much, that it's a miracle that she and Sherlock have made it this far, that she's been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since their first kiss.

Had she? Is that why, despite her annoyance at his disregard for her own wishes, shied away from having a very frank conversation with him? Because they had never actually talked, had they? They had simply fallen into this relationship and made a hash by trying to muddle through.

And it wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault.

::

"_John called me your girlfriend."_

"_Did he?"_

"_It sounded weird."_

"_You don't approve?"_

"_It's not…I don't know, it just seems a bit strange."_

"_But you've not objected to the term in previous relationships."_

"_I know. I'm sorry, I'm not making sense. I'll shut-up now."_

::

After a restless night, Molly comes to a decision. She texts Sherlock, asking him if she could come over. She's relieved when the reply comes almost instantly and positive.

She makes sure to have a good breakfast and loads of coffee. She takes a quick shower to look refreshed, then chooses her favourite pair of trousers and top. Some moisturiser and concealer for her face, a coat of mascara and a dab of lip balm and she feels ready to go to Baker Street.

She opts for the tube. Sherlock hates the hustle and noise of the London Underground, preferring the privacy of cabs. But Molly, who usually works in the chilly silence of the morgue or the muted atmosphere of the lab, likes the diversion of other commuters.

Once she's outside the house on Baker Street, she rings the doorbell before letting herself in with her key. Halfway up the stairs, she can see that the door to the sitting room is half open. She knocks briefly and then enters.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, in his thinking pose with hands steepled under his chin.

"Hi", she greets, walking over to sit in 'John's' chair. He doesn't return her greeting, but his eyes focus on her.

She gives him a smile, even though his detached manner bothers her. She won't be distracted from her purpose by his stoic stare. It is time that they had a discussion about their relationship and his demeanor will not deter her.

"You're unhappy," he announces and it has the effect of knocking the breath out of her.

Not understanding why she feels so thrown by his statement, it takes her a few seconds to regroup.

"No," she finally says, having examined the veracity of his words. "But I'm not happy either."

It may not be how she'd planned to open the discussion, but it was a good start as any, she decided. However, he continues before she can elaborate.

"I think you were right," he says, his hands now settled on the armrests.

There is an almost combative stance to his pose. Or maybe she's just imagining that, she thinks.

"About what?" she asks him. The absence of any emotion on his beautiful face almost scares her.

"That I can't give you what you want."

"And what do I want?" she hears herself dumbly ask. A cold dread slowly advances from the tip of her fingers and toes, travelling to settle heavily in her stomach.

"Things that I'm not capable of."

"No," she shakes her head, trying to shake off the awful feeling in her body. This is not how this was supposed to go but she doesn't seem capable of refuting his words.

There's that sharp, pitiless look on his face, "It is in my nature to be selfish. And I've always been selfish with you."

She shakes her head again, "You're not selfi…"

But he interrupts her harshly, "Did you not come to speak to me? About _us_?"

"I have but this isn't…"

"I was foolish in thinking that I was prepared for a relationship. I barely make an adequate friend. I fear my nature will never make me a suitable partner and, despite my selfishness and ego," here he gives her a sardonic smile, "I do not wish to inflict my shortcomings in that area on anyone. And as I do care about you, as much as I am capable of caring for anyone, you are the last person I would want to hurt."

Despite her placid nature, Molly has never been one to meekly accept a situation that she disagreed with. And what was happening now, the words he was saying, it was absolutely not anything she agreed with. She has come here to work it out, not to have it ended like this.

Yet, looking at his composed face and listening to his dispassionate voice, she can't formulate the thoughts swirling in her head. So she sits and stares at him, mutely, feeling the cold setting in even more.

And then a softness comes into his eyes, "Sooner or later, you would have tired of me, Molly. It is a wonder that you haven't already. I'd rather we end our liaison now and go back to who we were to each other before."

"And that was?" she manages to ask.

"Friends. We were friends, weren't we?"

"I thought we were, but I don't think things can go back to how they were before," she tells him.

'Oh god', she thinks, 'This is not what I want.' But the words to oppose him do not come.

He nods, "Perhaps you're right. But I hope that we can at least preserve our working relationship. "

The reality of what was happening finally hits her. She's just sat through Sherlock breaking up with her with almost no objection from her. And there are objections, loud ones, clanging around her head, waiting to be raised.

What comes out of her mouth is, "You've made up your mind."

"I should have never given in to my sentiments, my impulses. This is for the best. And I am truly sorry to have hurt you in any way."

His expression is resolute, the words sounding final. They sit there for a while, his face never betraying an inner turmoil, while hers probably broadcast all her conflicting emotions. From somewhere deep and old and wounded, she finds some words to say.

"Maybe you are right. Maybe we would have realized in a month or year from now that we're wasting our time. But I think you're a coward."

He starts, "Molly…"

"No. You've made up your mind, but you are a coward." She stands up and takes a step towards him, looking down at his face.

They'd made love in that chair, the memory of his hands gripping her waist as she'd ridden him almost tangible. That satisfied look on his flushed, sweaty face as they both came down from their peaks, snuggling into him as their skin cooled, they were all things of the past now.

"Maybe I'm a coward, too," she says. She digs out the key from her bag and gives it to him.

When he takes it from her, she swiftly leaves the flat.


	7. and around we go (Epilogue)

_**and around we go**_

A week passes. Then two. And then a month. And then three months go by.

She still has moments when she goes over it in her head. There had been tears in the beginning. Consoling words from family and friends. Evasion and careful scheduling to not cross paths, while the hurt was still fresh.

There had been hurt and resentment and aching and anger. There were still flashes of it, now and again. She still misses him and it's a strange feeling to have when someone is right there.

She still loves him but it's a dull pang she's used to.

.

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...

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _**

_First of all, thank you to everyone who's read this and left reviews. It always makes me smile when I get notifications. I hope you liked my last instalments and that I didn't disappoint too much. Feel free to message me or talk to me on tumblr (ditsypersephone)._

_It took me longer than expected to update this story for two reasons. The first one was another project that took a lot of time away from my computer and kept my hands otherwise busy. The second reason, and the more significant one, is that I was debating between going with my need for happy endings and my very initial plans to actually break them up. This fic did have a happy ending, where Molly and Sherlock talk and start listening to each other. But because I felt like writing a second part, I decided that I would go back to my earliest outline._

_So, there will be a second part. It's outlined and partially written but it will take me at least two weeks before I think I can start posting (I like to get about 80% of the writing done before I upload the first chapter)._

_I hope you'll come back to read it. And I hope next time I'll stick with a happy ending._


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